


Derail

by libraryofalexandra



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Dadza, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Foster Care, Good Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:28:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29927217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryofalexandra/pseuds/libraryofalexandra
Summary: He looks at him as if Phil is an oncoming train, and Wilbur lies paralysed. Tied to the track.Phil has to figure out how to throw on the breaks, or else derail entirely.He’s never driven a train before.He can learn though. For Wilbur.Or: Phil becomes a foster father after an emergency call from Wilbur's caseworker. He's been through a lot, but dammit, Phil's son is safe now.
Relationships: Ranboo & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 50
Kudos: 254





	1. Saturday Post

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to Derail! Please be nice to me lmao I'm fragile
> 
> Please make sure to read the trigger warnings in the tags (they will be updated as the fic continues)
> 
> Though this isn't Minecraft I am still talking about CHARACTERS here people!  
> If any creators mentioned say that they aren't comfortable with this kind of fan work, this will be immediately be yeeted from the internet.

Phil would like to think that he hadn’t got certified just because of an advert he saw between episodes of _The Mentalist_ on tv, but that was really what had started the process. It was one of those really sad ones, shot in black and white and specifically designed to make you feel like an awful person for not sponsoring a panda, feeding starving children in Africa or hand-building an orphanage for a town in Tanzania.

It was a notion inspired entirely by feelings of guilt, but it certainly wasn’t a thoughtless one.

The idea simply wouldn’t leave him alone.

Days after the possibility occurred to him, Phil caught himself wondering which spare bedroom in his house would be best for a child, found himself considering how a wardrobe full of kids clothes and toys would fit into his budget, or idly checking the time it would take to drive to the nearby school twice a day.

It was all hypothetical, of course. At least until a week later when he realized that he’d been subconsciously rearranging his kitchen whilst emptying the dishwasher. It took him a few days to get used to the new, considerably higher position of any given sharp object, and he grumbled to himself every time he couldn’t immediately find what he was looking for.

He never put it back to the way it was before, though.

He told himself that nothing had really been that organized anyway, that nothing had a permanent home in specific cupboards or drawers.

It didn’t mean anything.

And neither did the bookmarked tabs on his computer that educated him about the foster application process. Nor the helpful articles about introducing foster kids to a new environment successfully, parenting foster kids, or coping with the trauma of being through the system.

Parenting books appeared on his bedroom shelf, along with an empty photo album he definitely didn't intend to fill with pictures of himself.

None of it meant anything, he thought sternly at himself in the mirror whilst brushing his teeth, imagining the business of a slightly fuller house in contrast to the silence that he’d never noticed before, but now was keenly aware of.

It meant nothing. Until one afternoon, when he pulled his car into the driveway after a long day at work. It had been a rough day, and his boss wouldn’t get off his ass any more willingly than his clients did. He paused as he killed the engine, staring up at the big, beautiful house that he’d been so proud to buy.

That big, beautiful, overwhelmingly _empty_ house.

That same afternoon, Phil officially applied to become a foster parent.

It would be entirely wrong to assume that Phil hadn’t spent several sleepless nights deliberating over the idea, not helped by his internet quest for information, which revealed some horrible truths about the foster care system that he’d always somehow assumed had been fictionalized or exaggerated by the media.

It was a big responsibility, to be entrusted a child who had never had the chance to experience a family. Had never known love, or care, or even the bare minimum of obligation.

He was painfully aware that the change in lifestyle would be huge, to accommodate another living, breathing, thinking human. It would be an overhaul. But… maybe that was a good thing, for Phil. And he could maybe let himself believe that it would be good thing for whatever kid he had the privilege of being guardian to.

Even so, every part of the process to becoming certified, every bit of research he did about parenthood and raising kids from the system, kids who had potentially been abused or neglected or abandoned, was filled with self-doubt. He worried constantly that he wasn’t capable enough, or that he wouldn’t be cut out for what a kid would need from him. A kid who didn’t understand that he wouldn’t hurt them at the first sign of disobedience. That he wouldn’t shove them back into the system if they didn’t fulfil his every expectation. Discarded, like a cigarette butt flicked from a car window.

He never hesitated, though, when he was asked to sign the final document that confirmed that he was certified to foster a child.

He was sure.

He was excited.

He was overwhelmingly nervous.

To be honest, Phil had kind of anticipated an adjustment period between his confirmation as a foster carer and his first placement, but the call he received about twenty-four hours after he was officially added to the register left absolutely no time for it to sink in.

A problem child, they said.

Phil hates that term. Kids aren’t problems that need to be solved or dealt with. They’re people, they’re complicated, and they need to know that that’s okay.

The social worker on the other end of the line sounded tired at best, at worst bored, and like he was dying to get the kid off his hands. At Phil’s startled agreement, the social worker—whose name is Brandon—informs him that he’ll be delivering his foster kid at midday the next day and then promptly hangs up.

Delivering him. Like a fucking amazon package?

For some reason, Phil’s immediate reaction to this news is to start intensely cleaning the kitchen.

He could’ve said no; it really was as simple as that. No one was going to force a child into his care. They would simply keep looking until they found someone suitable to take him.

Maybe it was the caseworker. Brandon. The bored or tired tone, the eagerness to dump the kid at his doorstep. It filled Phil with a spiteful conviction, and a deep need to get this kid into more caring hands. Hands that didn't treat him like a parcel to be handed off to the next stranger on the assembly line.

This kid – Phil’s kid – will know that he’s worth more than the Saturday post.

Phil hopes this doorstep will be the last.

He scrubs at a coffee stain on the countertop he’s been meaning to get rid of for weeks with slightly more vigour than necessary. He shouldn’t be surprised. With all the horror stories about the system he’s read online, an emotionally disconnected, rushed social worker is pretty tame.

But now it all seems overwhelmingly _true_. Every tale about how utterly fucked the system really is is no longer just that: a tale. It's just fact, and he’s angry at himself for not accepting and processing that before actually having to interact with it.

The briefly described history attached to the kid like a postage label is unsettling, hard to hear, and hard to read when the file finally comes through to his email. Preferably, there would be a named therapist and a list of topics and triggers to avoid printed along with that document, but it appears no one has bothered to know him well enough for that.

Phil just breathes and scrubs the kitchen within an inch of its life. When he’s done, he doesn’t really feel any better, but he’s actually processing the information.

Something tells him that he’s going to have to get used to this feeling.

Phil thinks he should probably set up the guest room into something less impersonal, but has no idea how to do so when he has no clue what the kid even likes. So, he just changes the sheets on the bed to fresh ones, vacuums, and opens the window in an attempt to dispel some of that slightly musty air quality that comes with rooms that are rarely used. He opens the wardrobe, too.

They’ll go out to buy bedding and clothes and everything tomorrow afternoon, all being well. Some toys and games. Toothbrush and hairbrush and whatever soap smells good.

“Wilbur’s room.” He says it out loud, trying it out.

He wonders what Wilbur’s favourite colour is.

Maybe they can paint the walls together, if he wants.

. . .

Phil opens the door at the first knock, having been anxiously hovering in the hallway all morning, occasionally flitting into different rooms to needlessly adjust the position of random objects for absolutely no reason at all.

Brandon looks as tired as he sounded over the phone, with cropped black hair and eyebags almost as dark. He brandishes a worn-out folder with the name SOOT, WILBUR scratched out on a sticker that’s peeling off the front of it.

Phil shakes his hand, only half paying attention to his greeting.

Next to Brandon is a scrap of a child. Phil knows that Wilbur is eight years old, almost nine. He looks much younger, though most of his face is invisible behind the chaotic tangle of dark hair that hangs over his forehead. His nose is pointed at his feet, and he seems to shrink both behind and away from Brandon. He looks crushingly, appallingly afraid.

For a moment, Phil seriously considers that Brandon might have brought him the wrong kid.

With the vivid, though rapid and undetailed, description of Wilbur’s past history with foster homes, Phil had half been expecting the kid to throw a fit the moment he was asked to get out of the car on his driveway. The way Brandon had framed it, he’d been positive he’d be getting a snide remark, about the house, his appearance, about anything. Everything. At the very least, a scowl.

Wilbur does none of these things.

Instead, he seems to fold. He hunches further in on himself the longer he stands on the doorstep, and Phil decides fairly swiftly that he doesn’t want to hear Brandon talk about the kid as if he isn’t stood right beside him any more than Wilbur probably does. He isn’t listening anyway.

He cuts him off mid-sentence. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just sign, and Wilbur here can start getting settled in.” He forces himself to smile, “It’s cold out, you must both be freezing. I’m good to take it from here.”

Wilbur does look cold, in too-short jeans and a faded sweatshirt that might have once been blue. It has a hole in the front of it. He shivers, and Phil is suddenly set on buying this kid the most expensive coat he can find. _Today_.

Brandon just shrugs and hands him the requested document. “Alright, mate.”

Phil scribbles something resembling his signature in three places as quickly as he can, trying to ignore the package delivery comparison that keeps creeping into the forefront of his mind. He almost tears the paper in his hurry to shove it back into Brandon’s hands.

“I’ll call to see how things are going, but if you need me, my number’s on the file.” Phil hates the way he says that, as if he'll be just dying to get Wilbur off his hands before the week is out. It wrongfoots Phil so thoroughly that he turns instead to the kid himself, pushing the door open further behind him.

“Hi, Wilbur. I’m Phil. Have you got everything with you?”

Wilbur doesn’t look at him but nods with his chin buried in the top of the very empty-looking plastic rubbish bag he’s hugging to his chest like it’s about to be torn out of his grasp at any moment.

Phil doesn’t offer to carry it for him as he gestures him inside. That’s Wilbur’s stuff. Probably literally everything he’s ever owned, clutched to his chest so tightly his fingers have ripped through the plastic in a couple of spots.

He thanks Brandon with a strained smile and shuts the door in his face.

Abandoning the forms he had to have copies of on the nearest flat surface, Phil gives his charge his full attention. He takes in every tense line of his thin little body, with his eyes glued so completely to the floor that Phil hasn’t even seen what colour they are.

And Phil, for all his preparation, for all his reading and research, has no idea what to do other than show Wilbur around the house and let him get acquainted with his new environment.

“Alright,” he says, drumming his hands at his sides as he leads Wilbur through to the kitchen, “Welcome to the best room in the house! There's two fridges,” he indicates the one that looks like a cupboard before you open it, “Plates and cups and stuff just kind of wander a bit, so you might have to hunt around for them.”

He points out the bin, the big dinner table, the breakfast bar and its stools. 

As he’s gesturing about the kitchen, he notices Wilbur’s expression. He’s looking up and around now, following Phil’s hands with wide, confused eyes. Phil pauses and stills his hands in case the movement, though not particularly fast, is upsetting him.

“Wilbur? Are you alright?”

Wilbur’s eyes get even wider, if that’s possible, and he nods with a sort of manic energy that’s frankly quite alarming. He looks stricken when Phil frowns, his eyebrows shooting up and his lips parting in an expression that might be cartoonish if it wasn’t so downright terrified.

Phil quickly schools his face into something more reassuring, but Wilbur seems to be running with whatever anxiety-induced thought has wormed its way into his brain, because he suddenly forces eye contact and smiles. The contrast is downright jarring. The smile reaches nowhere close to his eyes, which remain wide and frightened. Something dark hovers behind the expression; a certain desperation that makes Phil’s skin crawl.

“Yes, thank you, Mister Watson. I’m fine.”

It’s the first words Wilbur has spoken to him, and Phil hates them. They’re full of fear, and an awful compliance that Phil makes a mental note to ensure that he never, _ever_ takes advantage of it, even accidentally.

He allows himself one whole second to stare in confusion and imagine the brutal murder of whatever sick, disgusting, animal excuse for a human being trained Wilbur to look an adult in the eye, smile, and _lie_ about his wellbeing.

Then he takes a breath, once more paints on what he hopes is a reassuring expression and crouches slightly so that he’s smaller, closer to Wilbur’s level and hopefully less intimidating.

“Don’t worry about any of that Mister Watson or sir stuff, makes me feel old. I’m just Phil.”

Wilbur’s smile, thank god, slips off his face, and his eyes, which Phil can now see are a dark brown, fix themselves back to the floor. He nods vaguely at Phil’s socks. The fake, frantic energy fades.

“Did you have a question about the kitchen?” It looked like he did.

Wilbur’s shoulders curl towards his ears, fingers digging further into the ripped rubbish bag that holds all his worldly possessions.

Phil counts fifteen heartbeats before Wilbur finds a voice. Possibly his own one this time. “I… You… I’m allowed to come in.”

The phrasing is weird and delivered with every word deliberated, but Phil isn’t about to call him out on it. Not when he’d just received the gift of a full sentence!

“You can come and go as much as you want. If you’re hungry, you can grab whatever you like, though maybe leave off using the stove or the oven. Don’t want you getting hurt or anything like that. That okay?”

Wilbur nods slowly, clearly unconvinced as his eyes flicker around the kitchen like he’s assessing a crime scene.

Phil forces away the thought that Wilbur has actually seen several crime scenes. That he’s been evidence more than once. _Time for that later,_ he tells himself. He can have a crisis when Wilbur isn’t looking at him from under his tangle of hair like he’s a ticking time bomb.

As Phil tours Wilbur around the rest of the ground floor, he makes sure to repeat the assurance that he can come and go as he pleases with every new room they enter. His eyebrows scrunch every time, like he's amazed at the fact that he’s allowed to venture out of the hallway at all.

The first floor is mostly just spare rooms and Phil’s own bedroom, so he doesn’t bother with most of them. Instead, he indicates the big bathroom, and his bedroom door, and then pushes open the door to the guest room he cleared out for Wilbur. He’s glad he closed the window before the temperature dropped overnight, because the room is welcomingly warm, despite its emptiness.

“This’ll be your room, if you’re happy with it. It’s super empty, though, since I have no clue what you like, so we can buy some decorations or something when we go to get your clothes later.”

Wilbur notices him looking at him for a response and forces that unnatural, strained smile back onto his face. “Thank you, Mister- um, I mean, thank you, Phil. It’s great.”

Phil looks about the empty, impersonal room. “Well, hopefully it will be when we get you all set up in here. Right now it’s a bit bare.”

Wilbur blinks at him from the corner of his eye, and, satisfied that Phil isn’t looking at him, abruptly drops the expression.

They’re going to have to have a conversation about this. It makes Phil feel nauseous to imagine what situation Wilbur had been in previously been in to have him internalise this particular behaviour, or rule, or whatever it was, in order to keep himself alive.

He doesn’t want to keep flipping that switch.

Ideally, he would’ve had some sort of preparation period before he ended up in this position, but Brandon had told him that it was an emergency, and that there was scarce place else for him to go. Wilbur needs somewhere to stay, somewhere to be safe, and Phil will gladly provide it.

He’s read the file that Brandon emailed him twice.

He shouldn’t be surprised by Wilbur’s behaviour. He tells himself that he prepared for this – he’s done his homework. He’ll be fine.

Phil tucks all of these thoughts into the rapidly growing mental folder labelled _To Process Later._

He turns to the door, his back to Wilbur, who seems to shrink another inch every time Phil’s eyes land on him. “It doesn’t have a lock, but I won’t come in without your permission, ever, unless it’s a really big emergency. If I want to come in, I’ll knock. And if you could knock on my bedroom room before coming in too, I would really appreciate it.”

A glance at Wilbur shows him an expression that is at best suspicious, and at worst blatant mistrust and disbelief. But Phil hopes he can convince him. He isn’t going to gain his trust with words, he knows that, but he’s going to model this behaviour to a fault until Wilbur believes that he’s allowed boundaries.

“Do you want to get cleaned up before we head out to buy stuff?”

Wilbur doesn’t answer, or move. Phil doesn’t want him to think his words are orders, but he can literally see a sheen of dirt on the kid’s skin, and he’s going to get sick if he doesn’t get clean soon.

Luckily, Wilbur grants him a small, hesitant nod.

He trails Phil across the hall to the bathroom like a little duckling, leaving his plastic bag in the room somewhere Phil deliberately doesn’t pay attention to. He demonstrates how the shower works, how to get the hot water, and notes how Wilbur’s eyes widen when he shows him the dial that can turn on the rainforest shower mode. Phil suppresses a smile.

“This door does lock,” he adds as he prepares to leave Wilbur to it, “so you can if you want to. I won’t come in either way. See you in a bit?”

He leaves Wilbur locked in a staring contest with the floor tiles, but hears the lock turn over almost as soon as he shuts it behind him.

Phil draws in a very, very deep breath before he can move from his spot outside the bathroom, then makes his way downstairs. He steps a little heavier than he normally would, just in case Wilbur is listening to make sure he’s really gone.

He needs something to do with his hands, so he makes a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink and sits with it, warm and grounding between his palms, at the kitchen table.

Wilbur is obviously terrified of him. The notion isn’t surprising, per se. He’d been briefed, however inadequately, on Wilbur’s past situations. He’d thought it over, he’d prepared himself.

But really, _reading_ about an abused kid’s history was entirely different from seeing the human result of years of neglect and violence in the form of an eight-year-old boy. What Phil has noticed within just over half-an-hour of Wilbur’s company is telling of deep-seated learned behaviours. Harmful, dangerous, awful learned behaviours that speak far more and far louder than Wilbur himself does.

Then there was the fact that knowing Wilbur would be scared somehow hadn’t translated into being prepared for him to be scared specifically of _Phil_.

He looks at him as if Phil is an oncoming train, and Wilbur lies paralysed. Tied to the track.

Phil has to figure out how to throw on the breaks, or else derail entirely.

He’s never driven a train before. 

He can learn, though. For Wilbur. For the very real, terrified child who just wants to stand in a rainforest shower without being told he’s not worth the water bill.


	2. Little Mobster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the afternoon is spent shopping. This proves difficult as Phil attempts to convince Wilbur that's he allowed to want things for himself.
> 
> He's fairly unsuccessful, but this is only day one.
> 
> Phil still really wants to fight someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for heavily implied past abuse, neglect and possible suggestion of dehumanisation.
> 
> Stay safe out there friends!

He prays that Brandon thought to feed the kid before he brought him here, but Phil starts compulsively making omelettes anyway. With the sight of Wilbur’s scared, wide-eyed compliance burning at the forefront of his mind, he needs something constructive to do with himself.

He can take care of Wilbur’s physical needs easily, first and foremost. He can feed him, provide hot water and warmth and a safe roof. It’s probably more than this kid is used to, the idea of which makes the vaguely sick feeling that’s been sitting in his gut since he laid eyes on the neglected child, churn.

Hopefully, Wilbur likes eggs. And if he’s as half-starved as he looks, they should be light enough a lunch for him to not lose it later on.

The motions of cooking are soothing, and the jittery feeling that comes with the vigilance of trying not to freak out a clearly traumatised little boy subsides somewhat.

He knows he’s made the right call, because when he goes to fetch Wilbur, he spies a pair of wide brown eyes peeking at him from the top of the stairs, evidently attracted there by the smell of cooking wafting through the open kitchen door.

He pretends not to notice, giving Wilbur enough time to scurry back to his new bedroom before beginning his ascent of the stairs.

Wilbur’s door is shut tight, so he knocks as promised and makes no attempt to intrude.

“Wilbur? I’ve made some lunch for us, if you’re hungry?”

There’s no answer, and Phil nods sagely to himself, understanding that Wilbur isn’t going to walk happily towards him like the promise of food smothers any other fear he might have. Hopefully it’s enough to tempt him into the kitchen, though, because Phil really wants to get some decent grub into the bundle of skinny limbs that makes up his foster child. He doesn’t really know what he’ll do if he refuses to eat, but ideally, he won’t have to cross that bridge at all because it won’t come to it.

He tromps back down the stairs with the same obvious footsteps as before, and when he’s almost reached the kitchen, is rewarded by the patter of much lighter footsteps following him hesitantly towards the inviting smells of lunch.

Predicting that forcing Wilbur to sit at a dining table with him might be a bit much, Phil sets him a much more casual place at the breakfast bar.

It’s a neat little setup where Phil can continue making the second omelette for himself, and Wilbur doesn’t have to put his back to him. Plus, the added bonus of a countertop between them. A makeshift shield, he’s sure, in the eyes of a terrified eight-year-old.

Phil is quickly working out a system of thinking to keep Wilbur’s comfort in mind. Essentially, he imagines Wilbur as some terrifying mobster assassin who could flip a switch at any moment and try to strangle him. Then he tries to come up with precautions to keep himself defended. Like keeping a table between them, thinking before he speaks and not invading personal space.

If he doesn’t provoke the little mobster staying with him, then Wilbur won’t be as scared.

It’s a little painful to think that _he’s_ the mobster assassin in Wilbur’s eyes. He’s all too aware that to Wilbur, it’s not just a system to remember to keep out of someone’s personal space, but a matter of real threat. A strong pang of guilt shoots through his chest at the idea that this comes a little close to treating Wilbur as some sort of game; as if his anxiety is something to thoughtlessly mimic. It isn’t. It’s awful and tragic, and very real. But if it helps Phil remember to keep his hands and words to himself, then he’s willing to feel a little guilty for Wilbur’s benefit.

He gets back to cooking before Wilbur’s thin little frame even appears in the doorway, so as not to loom over him. He hovers there, on the balls of his feet on the threshold of the kitchen, as if daring himself to lose his balance and trip into the room involuntarily.

“It’s alright,” he keeps his tone as gentle as he possibly can, but Wilbur still flinches as if he’d screamed at him. “Do you like eggs?”

Wilbur nods haltingly, swaying slightly on his tiptoes. He’s actually looking at Phil, though. Or perhaps he’s focused on the eggs beside him. It’s even harder to see his eyes now that his tangle of curly hair is dampened into further chaos.

He does look cleaner, though, which is a relief. Those old clothes have still got to go as soon as possible. They’re too small, too worn through, and frankly not good enough for a kid living under Phil’s roof.

It’s taken all an hour for him to decide that Wilbur deserves the entire world, and he’s going to freely give him as much of it as he possibly can.

“Come on then, get it while it’s hot.” Phil encourages, putting his eyes back on his frying pan, trying to look busy so Wilbur doesn’t feel pinned by his attention.

The boy slides onto the barstool across from him near-silently, and Phil gives him a warm smile over his shoulder as he does. He doesn’t pick up his fork, seeming only to stare longing at the eggs as if he wants nothing more in the world than to eat, but invisible hands hold him back.

Whatever Wilbur’s thoughts, Phil lets him have a minute without scrutiny. It could be that he’s trying to work up the courage to eat in front of him, so turning his back to keep working on the omelette seems a sensible precaution.

When he glances back, he catches Wilbur’s eye, but he dodges his gaze fairly swiftly. He’s looking at him oddly, though indirectly, and Phil doesn’t know if he’s waiting for permission or something else.

He almost opens his mouth to reassure him but has to quickly dig out a plate before he ruins his food in the moment of distraction. As he does, he catches the faint sound of Wilbur’s voice, counting, unbelievably quietly towards some unknown total.

Phil starts eating his omelette standing up after turning off the heat of the stove because if he sits he’ll either have to be right next to or behind Wilbur, and he’s got to keep his distance from the little mobster in his care.

Table between them, plenty of breathing room.

Wilbur seems to reach whatever number he needs soon after but glances back and forth between Phil and his plate for another ten seconds before he can bring himself to carefully raise his fork and actually eat.

Once he’s started though, he’s working through it with impressive speed. Phil observes the protective arm wrapped around the side of the plate, the hunch of Wilbur’s posture over the food like he’s trying to entirely curl himself over the countertop to protect it.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish, and when he does he raises the glass of water with both hands and clumsily downs it in one.

Phil’s suddenly not feeling very hungry anymore. Like the bottom just dropped out of his stomach.

He finishes his plate anyway, feeling it would be an offence to waste food in front of a child who’s clearly never had the privilege to do so.

He wants to cook Wilbur a seven-course meal right there and then, but that would most probably make him very sick, so he controls himself. He does, however, replace the glass of water with a fresh one.

This seems to kick off another bout of counting, and Phil desperately wants to ask _why_ but knows that that is likely ill-advised.

He lets Wilbur get on with it, and hopes he isn’t making himself force down whatever Phil gives him in an attempt to appease.

Phil loads the dishwasher whilst Wilbur works out whatever he needs to work out.

He almost jumps out of his skin when the kid suddenly materialises next to him, holding out his empty plate and cup with a resolved expression scrunched on his face like he has to call upon every ounce of bravery in his skinny little body to bring himself within arm’s reach. He’s shaking as Phil gently takes them from him, with a smile and a quiet “Thank you.”

He skitters back as soon as the crockery leaves his hands, returning to his barstool as if someone had just shouted that the floor is lava and his feet had started burning.

“Well,” says Phil, straightening up once he’s set the dishwasher going and smiling at Wilbur, who stiffens under his gaze. “We better go and get you some new stuff. There’s a good department store in town that should have a lot of what we need. Do you feel up to going for a ride in the car?”

Wilbur’s hands twist the hem of his worn-out sweater, looking frankly stricken at being asked a direct question again. He gives his signature shaky nod all the same, though Phil is unconvinced that he would dare to deny him anything he asked of the kid.

…

Wilbur is already shivering from the short walk down the drive as he climbs stiffly into the passenger seat of Phil’s car. The end-of-August chill is barely enough to even effect Phil, but Wilbur has zero meat on his bones to protect him and looks as if a stiff breeze could bowl him over.

“You look frozen, mate,” Phil tells him, “First thing we’re buying you is a decent coat. Oh, and seatbelt on please.” He taps his own demonstratively. “Safety first.”

Wilbur genuinely looks surprised at the concern for his security but complies with hurried motions to follow the instruction.

An itch starts under Phil’s skin at the implication of that surprise.

He gives his charge a once over to check that he’s adequately strapped in before keying the engine into life.

Now Wilbur’s mop of curls is dry, it’s clear that his hair is actually a much lighter shade of brown that it originally seemed under all the grime that he brought with him. It’s still dull and kind of lank, but hopefully if he can get some decent nutrition into him, the dull quality of his hair and eyes will fade along with the slightly pinched, hungry look that hangs around his mouth and cheekbones.

Wilbur stares at his hands, chewing on the inside of his cheek as they reverse down the driveway and pull onto the street.

“I don’t have any money,” Wilbur suddenly declares, then visibly braces himself as Phil looks at him, surprised at the sudden outburst.

Phil blinks at him but forces himself to pay attention to the road. He’s generally been trying to avoid thoughts of taking more time off work to personally hunt down Wilbur’s biological parents, but it’s a losing battle.

“Don’t worry about that,” He says firmly, trying to sound reassuring even as the abject rage and downright disbelief sets in. Even with the thought that Wilbur had probably waited until Phil’s hands were completely occupied with driving before he spoke up. “There’s plenty to go around. Mate, you’re eight. You shouldn’t be paying for anything.”

“So I pay when I’m older,” Wilbur says seriously, nodding.

“What? No, Wilbur. You don’t pay for this stuff. At any point.”

There’s no reply this time, so he can only hope that the message has sufficiently sunk in.

Somehow, he doubts it.

… EDIT FROM HERE DOWNWARDS

The store is fairly empty, with only a few people milling about the isles. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it on a regular day, but with Wilbur trailing along behind him the vacancy has him praising any god that he can bring to mind for the small mercy. He’d worried that being around lots of people would be horribly anxiety-inducing for him, but he seems genuinely more comfortable where other people can see him.

As promised, they make a beeline to the kids sized coat racks. He shifts through a few before pulling out a decent quality one and turning back to Wilbur.

“What do you think? Do you like this one?” He asks, not really expecting an answer but hoping for some indication all the same.

Wilbur looks at him blankly for a full two seconds before his eyes go wide and that unnatural grin is hoisted hurriedly back onto his face. “It’s really nice, thank you, Phil.”

It could be convincing if the context wasn’t so gratingly wrong.

Phil tries not to frown, knowing it would scare him. But he’s got to communicate to Wilbur in some way that he actually wants his genuine opinion and thoughts rather than the pre-programmed response to any given question.

“Wilbur, you don’t have to…”

But his face freezes and his eyebrows scrunch and Phil gives up with a sigh.

“I’m glad you like it,” he concedes, though he has no clue whether that’s the case. “Can you try it on? I want to make sure it fits.”

Wilbur, of course, obliges him. And though the unquestioning acquiescence is far from ideal, the coat is. It fits perfectly around Wilbur’s slender shoulders, snug but with enough room for him to put on a bit of weight like Phil hopes he will in the next few weeks.

Phil smiles at him. “You look great! It really suits you, and it should last for a while, which is good.”

Wilbur makes a little huff at these words, which Phil has no idea how to interpret. He tries not to read into it too much, despite it being the most autonomy he’s seen from the kid all day.

It’s going fine. One could say it’s even going _well_ until Wilbur takes off the coat to put in the trolley and spies the price label.

Phil is still looking along the rack for even better coats when, to his surprise, he hears Wilbur call for his attention.

“Mister—um, Phil,” He mumbles at Phil’s shoes.

“What’s up?” Phil replies, trying not to look startled.

Instead of reply verbally, Wilbur just lifts the coat higher and points to the tag. And sure, it’s a little pricey, but it’s a good quality coat, and well worth it if he doesn’t have to watch his kid shake like a leaf at the first draft of autumn air.

Wilbur seems to be trying to hand the coat back to him to return it to its hanger, and Phil takes it, but only to place it decisively into the trolley.

“Listen, Wilbur,” he says, getting down on one knee in the shopping aisle to try and look him in the face. “Money isn’t a problem at all. You’ll never have to pay me back for any of it, I promise. I just really want you to be warm, so I’m really happy to be able to buy you a very nice coat. Get it?”

He very obviously doesn’t, but nods amenably anyway. 

Unfortunately, this incident results in Wilbur outright refusing to have any reaction at all to anything Phil points out for pretty much the whole trip, as if afraid to provoke Phil into spending more money on him.

No matter what Phil says to reassure him, it’s clear that Wilbur just doesn’t believe him.

There’s very little he can do to convince him. Not here. Not today. It’s something that can only be proven through actions, and in time. And as much as that aches in Phil’s chest, it’s just something that can’t be helped.

If Phil suggests something to buy, that forced smile just makes its appearance and the scripted words repeat themselves; “Yes, Phil.” “Thank you, Mister Watson.”

Phil ends up buying a vast variety of clothing Wilbur’s size in an attempt to accommodate whatever he would actually like to wear within the masses. Some of the clothes are certainly against his better judgement, such as a bright yellow sweater that’s really slightly too big for such a skinny little kid, but he noticed Wilbur force his eyes away from it as if trying to convince himself not to look. So he bought the garish thing and watched Wilbur fidget with his hands as Phil added it to the pile.

Soon, Phil has clothes, pyjamas, toothbrush and all other such stuff all accounted for (plus a bottle of bubble bath, because Wilbur has probably never had one, and a bubbleless childhood is a whole other crime to add to the list of injustices wrought upon him).

He does his very best to convince Wilbur to choose a more age-appropriate bedspread, something a little more exciting than just plain white sheets, but to no avail. He has no clue what sort of thing Wilbur likes, but it doesn’t really seem like the kid himself does either. Most of them are based on cartoons Wilbur’s never seen, and the rest themed around things like football or planets and stars. There’s no kernel of interest in the blank expression that masks his face.

And so, Phil had to let Wilbur’s fake smile and programmed words insist that the ones already on the bed would do just fine.

Phil understands completely what Wilbur is saying. It’s true; he doesn’t _need_ patterned bedspreads or extra cushions with cartoons on them. But it isn’t a matter of _needing_ , it’s to do with wanting. With enjoying.

And he can’t help but mournfully wonder how long it’s going to take Wilbur to realise that his basic needs are no longer something he has to fight tooth and nail to get. That he’s allowed find enjoyment in things with no reprimand or consequence.

It might take a while. But it’s only day one.

So for now, Phil will work on proving it to him. And he just hopes he doesn’t have to keep pretending the eight-year-old boy in his care is actually a mobster in order to remember not to freak him out.

He pushes the trolley towards the toys, absolutely determined to get Wilbur to show at least a flicker of interest in something. In literally _anything_.

First and foremost, he buys him a nerf gun: the staple of Phil’s own childhood escapades. The day that Wilbur shoots him with a nerf pellet might be the greatest day of Phil’s life if it ever comes. He hopes it does.

He peers at the Lego sets lined up along the shelves, nothing particularly catching his eye except a rogue piece of chewing gum that’s been stuck carelessly to one of the shelves. He gives up and peers at Wilbur instead, expecting to see him locked in his usual eye contact with his own shoes, and is stunned to find him staring, lips parted, at one of the boxes.

“What’s that?” Phil asks, following his sightline.

Wilbur freezes, drops his gaze and gives a half-hearted shrug.

It’s a Lego planet Earth. A set to build a globe the size of a basketball with a stand so that you can spin it around on its axis. It looks like a difficult build, and Phil has no clue why it caught Wilbur’s eye, but he’s certainly not going to say no.

“Woah! That’s awesome!” Phil gives plenty of warning before he comes so close, bending slightly to get a good look. “We should totally get this. Don’t you think?”

He expects the reappearance of the smile and fake words. What he gets is absolute silence, which leaves Phil in complete confusion about whether he actually wants it or it’s bringing up a bad memory for him.

A moment passes, in which Phil almost decides that he’s freaking out and whisks him away, but before he can act, Wilbur looks up. He forces the eye contact that he’s so obviously terrified of making and hitches his smile onto his face with what seems like much more difficulty than on average.

“No thank you, Phil. You’ve already bought so much!” The brightness in his voice doesn’t belong to him, and it hits Phil once again how unsettling it is to hear an adult’s words come out of an eight-year-old’s mouth.

He can’t let this carry on. Can’t keep pretending that this is okay. On one hand, he knows Wilbur is trying to keep himself safe through a trained behaviour that has worked to ensure his safety in the past. It’s understandable, and Phil doesn’t want to take away his coping mechanism if that’s what this is. On the other hand, it’s unhealthy, and Phil feels wrong reinforcing it.

It’s an impossible situation.

He crouches in front of Wilbur, and watches the smile melt off his face and be replaced by a barely concealed fear. “Are you sure?”

Wilbur nods hesitantly, eyes searching somewhere over Phil’s shoulder.

“Wilbur, if you want it – if you want anything here – it’s yours. I’m not going to take it away, you’re not going to have to pay for it, nothing like that. I’m buying stuff for you, which means you get to keep it for as long as you want it.” He looks his little mobster in the face, conveying as much genuine honesty as he possibly can. “I promise.”

Wilbur is fidgeting on his feet, twisting the hem of his sweater between his hands again.

“Do you understand?” If Phil’s voice had been gentle before, he practically whispers the question.

The kid is shrinking under his attention, and he seems to check up and down the aisle to make sure that there are other people than Phil that can see him. His eyes even dart to the security camera on the ceiling.

“You can take them away,” he says, and Phil knows he’s still trying to placate him. Trying to pass a test with no right answers.

“I could,” he acknowledges, and Wilbur gives a strong little nod like he finally knows he and Phil are on the same page. “But I’m not going to.”

This seems like a very serious conversation to be having in the middle of a department store, but Wilbur honestly seems more willing to talk when he knows someone other than Phil has a sightline on him. Wilbur knows an adult is less likely to hurt him in public; a thought that brings back the itch under his skin. The one he can’t reach.

“You won’t take it away.”

“I won’t.”

“Okay.”

It’s hard to know whether Wilbur believes him at all, but his eyes do track the Lego globe as Phil deposits it into the cart with all the other purchases.

His fingers latch onto the side of the trolley as they move on, anchoring himself, however indirectly, to his new belongings.

Phil adds a bunch more essentials to the cart, but he’s determined not to leave the store without Wilbur owning at least one stuffed animal.

He’d buy all of them if he didn’t think it would panic the kid out of his mind.

Amidst mounds of soft toys, Phil asks Wilbur to choose one. He predicts the polite insistence that he doesn’t need one and interrupts it before the uncomfortable, appeasing smile can make an appearance.

“I really want you to have one, Wilbur. Will you choose? There’s too many for me to pick from, but I bet you’ll get a really good one.”

Wilbur looks lost in the rows of plush items like he’s never seen anything soft in his life. But Phil doesn’t miss the way his eyes catch on a row of monkey toys. They have long arms and different coloured bucket hats.

“What about these?” Phil suggests before the kid can pretend he doesn’t want one.

Wilbur just nods and looks away, which is really a vast improvement.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

Wilbur shrugs, though he glances back at the row of monkeys.

“Come on, you must have a favourite colour. My favourite is green.”

Wilbur reaches for the green hatted monkey, but Phil quickly intervenes, realising his mistake. “It’s not going to be my monkey though, so I think you should choose your favourite, not mine.”

Wilbur puts it back carefully, looking slightly spooked at the reprimand as he watches Phil from his peripheral vision.

There’re a few beats of silence during which Wilbur seems to realise that Phil isn’t going to direct him any further and begins to seriously consider his options. Hesitantly, he scoops up the long-limbed monkey with the yellow hat, and Phil grins. A display of autonomy! His kid had made a whole decision all by himself!

Wilbur doesn’t put it in the cart, instead hanging onto it for the remaining duration of their outing. He’s endearingly distracted by the discovery that the monkey’s long arms have magnets in the hands so that its paws grip together. This results in the adorable sight of Wilbur trailing around next to Phil, his fingers locked into the wire of the trolley with his monkey dangling with its arms around his neck.

All things considered; the trip is a roaring success.

Wilbur doesn’t let go of his monkey the whole way home, though the fragment of tension that he’d let go of whilst in the store returns in full force once they’re hidden from the eyes of the general public.

“You should give him a name,” Suggests Phil, and Wilbur jumps at the interruption of silence. “You don’t have to tell me. It can be a secret name if you like.”

Wilbur doesn’t say anything, but that’s okay.

It’s been a long day, and if he’s half as tired as Phil, then he doesn’t blame him at all.

Wilbur’s worldview is being challenged, and it must be exhausting to be so vigilantly on guard every minute of every day. To watch for a new danger’s tells, to try to predict when he’s going to be hurt and learn a new set of rules he doesn’t yet know don’t exist.

It makes Phil want to feed him more to replace the calories burned by the incessant anxiety present in every tense line of his body.

Much later, after a counted dinner and a carefully distanced goodnight, Phil makes sure Wilbur is all tucked up in bed before he allows himself to just sit in silence and think. Letting out a day’s worth of painful discoveries ends up coming with a flood of tears, but he’ll admit to feeling better after having a good cry.

Even without a detailed account in the files he has, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Wilbur has been hurt over and over again. Every day, in many ways, and for everything.

Phil doesn’t think he’s ever had less faith in the human race than after today. How much worse must that feeling be for Wilbur?

Sleep doesn’t find him for a long time that night, and he lays awake, worrying if Wilbur has found any rest in the room down the hall. Or if he lays awake, terrified that Phil could appear at any moment to take his toys and clothes away or rip him from his bed and _harm_ him.

Maybe he stares at the ceiling, cataloguing every mistake he thinks he’s made. Counting every minuscule reason Phil could possibly have to be angry with him and wondering what he might do about it.

But as hard and emotionally taxing as the day has been, Phil doesn’t regret bringing Wilbur into his home for a moment. He knows he’s made the right decision, and he’s already so attached to this wounded little boy that he hopes he never has to let him go. He has a desperate need to prove to Wilbur that people can be kind, and that he doesn’t deserve all that he’s suffered in his short life.

It’s going to be a slow, arduous process. And it’s going to hurt.

But he’s rapidly realising that he’d do just about anything to see a genuine smile on Wilbur’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila! It took me a really long time to get this chapter to a point where I deemed it acceptable, and I'm still not sure I like it.
> 
> Anywho, how do we feel about a switching POV? I haven't decided yet. Would you like a glimpse inside Wilbur's head?

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment to let me know what you think? It would mean the world :]


End file.
